Smiles on past misfortune's brow, While hope prolongs our happier hour; Still, where rosy pleasure leads, See the wretch that long has toss'd And breathe, and walk again; HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN. Aliss Pardue. [A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication.'] ALLAH! Father! hear us; Our souls are faint and weak: We fain would chase that cloud away, Allah! Father! hear! We seek the cooling fountain, The cloud that crowns the mountain The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain Oh! ope the secret springs again— Allah! Father! hear! We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers, Smiles on past misfortune's brow, While hope prolongs our happier hour; Still, where rosy pleasure leads, See the wretch that long has toss'd And breathe, and walk again; HYMN OF THE TURKISH CHILDREN. Miss Pardoe. [A recent traveller in Turkey describes an interesting ceremony witnessed by her, performed at a time of excessive drought. At dusk, the village children, walking two and two, and each carrying a bunch of flowers, drew near the cistern in their turn, and sang, to one of the thrilling melodies of the country, a hymn of supplication.'] ALLAH! Father! hear us; Our souls are faint and weak: We fain would chase that cloud away, We seek the cooling fountain, Alas! we seek in vain; The cloud that crowns the mountain The stream is shrunk which thro' our plain Oh! ope the secret springs again— Allah! Father! hear! We bring thee flowers, sweet flowers, And we like them shall pass away, AILEEN ARTORE'S EPITAPH. (WRITTEN BY HERSELF.) HERE in a little cave, The prettiest nook of this most grassy vale, Their heads into my little vault, and mourn, I am not all forgot: A small hoarse stream murmurs close by my pillow, And o'er me a green willow Doth weep, Still questioning the air, Why doth she sleep, The girl, in this cold spot?' Even the very winds Come to my cave and sigh; they often bring Rose-leaves upon their wing To strew O'er my earth, and leaves of violet blue; |